channel ORANGE
by immer wenn es dunkel wird
Summary: After exhaling loudly, to let all the doubts flee, May opens one of the buckets and dips her brush into its viscous green. She starts to paint. /nineteen tracks, nineteen Ultimate Spiderman drabbles: headcanons ft. friendship and minor romance.


_channel ORANGE_

| nineteen tracks, nineteen Ultimate Spiderman drabbles |

Note(s): From my all-time favorite CD, I took scraps of lyrics and beats, listened to the songs on repeat and am currently proud to present you with a collage of headcanons and _what-ifs_. Ultimate Spiderman is one of my favorite cartoons and I absolutely adore writing fiction for it. Hope you enjoy this as well.

Warning(s): _Harry's daddy issues_, subtle romance and not-so-subtle romance, minor angst and major hurt/comfort.

Summary: After exhaling loudly, to let all the doubts flee, May opens one of the buckets and dips her brush into its viscous green. She starts to paint. /nineteen tracks, nineteen Ultimate Spiderman drabbles: headcanons, friendship and minor romance.

_I hereby disclaim any rights_

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#1. Start : May Parker - {instrumentals only}

After coming home from Ben's funeral and ushering a hysterical, grieve-stricken Peter to the solitary confines of his bedroom, she'd plumped down on her sofa and spent a couple of minutes staring at the cheerful lime green wallpaper, refusing to let her gaze glide over the collection of framed pictures on the ochre shelves of the fireplace and focusing solemnly on a loose strip of paper in the omnipresent green of her walls. Her stark black clothes were a devastating contrast with the warmth this house seemed to harbor within its wooden and stone framework and she rubbed her hands together listlessly, almost mindlessly. Years ago, when she had first set foot inside this house as a newly-wed, she had ardently argued with her husband to cover the blank beige walls with a splash of color, to conceal the blandness and paint in broad bright brushstrokes a sense of security, familiarity. He had fondly called her his headstrong bride and they had covered the house in a wall-paper of their liking. Her hands itched as she kept scrutinizing the imperfection in front of her. She rose from her seat, her heels click-clacking on the floor as she walked unusually calm and steadfast with her arms stretched in front of her.

May _tore_ the wall-paper down, shred by _miserable_ shred, until there was nothing but this shade of broken white left.

Right now, she's standing in front of the exact same spot she stood years ago, her skin a bit more wrinkled and her hair a bit more attenuated, but with a certain vigor glowing from her body. She has a couple of metallic buckets next to her, on top of their closed lids are a few large brushes with thick, coarse hairs and a paint roller. Three hours ago, after a long conversation with her only nephew, she's bought five buckets of paint at a respectable DIY shop. They're a green associated with the freshness and crispness of spring.

After exhaling loudly, to let all the doubts flee, May opens one of the buckets and dips her brush into its viscous green. She starts to _paint_.

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#2. Thinking 'Bout You : Sam Alexander/Ava Ayala - thought you were cool 'nough to kick it.

"You're such a dork." -

He looks up from his spot at the counter, distracted from his menial task of bespreading the buns for his sandwich with cheese, salad and slivers of fresh, wet tomato. Sam furrows his brows, until they're resembling black fuzzy caterpillars, offended because he'd been in the middle of explaining to her why he's so fond of the constellation Corvus.

Gingerly placing his palms flatly on the smooth counter top, he snaps, "Webhead is a _**dork**_. I'm suave, get your facts straight, kitty."

Ava, seated on top of the counter a bit removed from him, crosses one leg over the other and grins, "Oh, really now? I'm sorry to have mistaken ya' for a closet-geek. But ya know, all that astronomy talk might've been misleadin'." She stares down at him triumphantly, knowing she's got him verbally cornered.

Pursing his lips, the short-tempered teen mulls the words over in his head and sniffs, "If I'm boring you, _miss A plus_, then I must've hit rock bottom on the social ladder."

Her hand darts out, pats the crown of his head a few times and motions him to come closer. When he's standing directly in front of her, she wraps her legs around him to pull him close and settles her elbows on his shoulders. She chuckles deeply and reaches downwards to press her plush lips upon the button of his nose. Sam miserably hugs her back and gently pushes his fingers along the trail of her vertebrae.

"Tell me the myth 'gain." He can't help himself and breaks down in a smile; it shouldn't be this important to him that Ava likes the story his mother told him years 'go, when she was doing the laundry, which was neither his nor hers, but somehow, it does something to him.

Sam begins to speak, content with her forehead tenderly pressed against his own; with her pin-straight hair hiding them both like a curtain-call.

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#3. Fertilizer : Nick Fury, Max Fury, Peter Parker - i take bullshit, if that's all you got.

"And this is_** far**_, far from over, Nicolas!"

He's at a complete loss for a moment, numb to the feeling of Scorpio's crimson mask in his clenched fist and unreceptive to the words Spiderman had just uttered. His brother kick-starts back into action, getting up and making a dash in the direction of the watery depths, towards the water which engulfs his Helicarrier on the verge of automatic self-destruction. Nick sets his jaw, runs after him, purposefully ignoring the computer system and the code coiling in the recesses of his brain and his duty as director of S.H.I.E.L.D. because this is his brother, Max and the blood coursing through his veins is thicker than the waves splashing and crashing against the large metal contraption, sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Max takes the leap of faith, arms stretched in front of him, dives head-first and disappears out of his brother's life again. Around him are the bleating speakers and seconds away from certain death; director Nicolas Fury snaps back into attention and races to the holographic keyboard.

When Spiderman tells him he's a great mentor, he wisely holds his tongue in check, refuses to disillusion another man with his words. He's lost Wade Winston Wilson to the spoils of immorality, created Taskmaster and he's lost his brother, -_oh God_, his own brother- to the glossed-over appeal of villainy.

"You shouldn't have." Nick drawls, scrutinizing the frayed box of the label-maker skeptically. His hands feel empty without the mask and he absentmindedly wonders where he put it, lost it.

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#4. Sierra Leone : Luke Cage, Jessica Jones, Peter Parker - baby girl, if you knew what i know

Luke has noticed her _around_; sometimes she caught his eye during lunch break when he was standing in line waiting for a plastic tray of peas, mashed potatoes and medium rare or when he wasn't actually paying all that much attention to the literary devices Shakespeare employed in Hamlet or Macbeth the teacher liked to prattle on and on about, and Jessica Jones, at least Luke thought that was her name, would be just sitting there on the second row with her glossy hazelnut brown hair and private smiles.

It didn't take a private investigator to figure out she had a thing for Peter Parker -_or Johnny Storm for that matter, just a quick glance at the insides of her locker were proof enough_- but there's something he can't quite place, as if there's more that initially meets the eye. They had talked once, outside the school gates, strangely enough about superheroes instead of the fact he's best friends with her crush. Sunlight gave her hair color multiple nuances, going from honey gold to a deeper chestnut and Luke had been distracted for a second.

Her words jolted him back to the conversation, "Do you.." She paused, putting a few strands behind her pale pink ear, "Think they're a good thing?" Her eyes had this twinkle, trick of the light.

Luke had smiled at that, "What could be wrong 'bout doin' something for the greater good?"

Her teeth raked over her bottom lip as if she was hesitating for a reason, but the screech of the bus' wheels made her snap her head upwards and whatever she wanted to say vanished from her mind. Jessica had given him a nod and rummaged in her backpack for some change. He returned the gesture and made his way down the sidewalk, quietly chuckling to himself; what would she say when he told her that he was a part of a superhero team? Alongside Peter Parker as Spiderman himself nonetheless. Luke shook his head, smile tugging on his lips.

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#5. Sweet Life : Mary-Jane Watson, Peter Parker - why see the world, when you got the beach?

They're kicking it like friends are supposed to, just hanging out in her bedroom with a movie playing on her laptop the both of them are ignoring and an empty bag of Lays crumpled next to her bed on the floor. He's on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to her critical review on an article she's read this morning, his chest heaves and sags, his arm curved over his forehead. She pokes him fondly when he doesn't immediately respond to one of her statements, about the sense and nonsense of the physical condition of a politician in an electoral process. Peter groans at her sharp fingernail digging into the exposed flesh of his abdomen and rolls over, propping his chin on his knuckles.

"I'm sure there's some Darwinist explanation for why people like to vote abs and biceps instead of thin hair, MJ, but I'm a bit too lazy to make a statistic on it right now." He has his lopsided grin, the one his aunt sometimes jokingly calls handsome.

MJ rolls her eyes, exasperated, "Why do I even put up with you, Parker?" Her teeth are bare when she smiles back at him, "It's just.. This belongs in someone's thesis, this isn't news per se. Spiderman's hidden identity or a corruption scandal is news, this is purely speculation seeing there are no scientific sources given..."

He cuts her off, trying to keep his tone of voice light, "Why would Spiderman's identity be_ news_?"

One crimson eyebrow arches upwards, as if she's challenging his question's validity. "It'd be the scoop of the decade, at least."

"But his identity isn't important, is it?" His right foot starts to make a circular motion, "I mean, his face isn't the message he's tryin' to send. It's.. Uh.. What he does. That's the most important part, right?" He probes the inside of his cheek with his apex, "Must be my sentimental side poppin' up. Who would've thought?"

She seems to consider this and pipes up, softly, gently almost, "You're.. You have a point."

Peter replies immediately, "'Course I do, I'm a science-guy. We only score points."

"_God_, I inflated your ego, I'm never going to live this down, am I?" MJ mutters, nearly kicking the laptop off her mattress.

His grin is obviously obnoxious, "Nope!"

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#6. Not Just Money : Eugene 'Flash' Thompson, Luke Cage, Peter Parker - the difference between happiness, being happy and sad

Peter crouches on the flat rooftop opposite of Midtown High, his suit crumpled into a ball of webbed reds-and-blues and stuffed into his backpack, save for his mask, which lies wrinkled on the concrete-cast slat. Luke is slumped against the red brick wall of the adjourning building, checking his messages with raised brows.

"You're awfully quiet, Web-head. What snaked in ya boxers, man?" He asks, not bothering to look up from the illuminating touch-screen of his phone.

Shaking his head, chestnut shoved-away bangs swaying as he does, Peter replies, "I've been thinkin' about Flash and how he is, who he is.. I mean, I never knew he lived in such a.." He trails off meaningfully, staring down at the blonde quarterback at the school gates. They have fifteen minutes before class starts.

Luke chuckles lowly, putting his mobile away and crossing his arms behind his head, "**_Dump_**? Mess? I'm feelin' ya. Puts things in a perspective, right?" His eyelids shift shut over his chocolate-brown irises.

He hums in response, making a grab for his mask and proceeds, "His apology to Alex was a good start."

"For tippin' the scales? I know it starts with _sayin' sorry_. Hope Flash can make it last, he could be a real role-model for this school y'know." Luke supplies, basking in the soft glow of the sun.

Stuffing his mask into his backpack and zipping it shut, the teen balances himself so he can sit onto the ledge, legs dangling and the heels of his sneakers thudding against the wall. "Think he'll start givin' motivational speeches before the game?"

"Nah, I'm way too good at motivatin' peeps for him to steal my limelight." Luke answers truthfully with a smirk curling up his lips, eyes still closed.

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#7. Super Rich Kids : Harry Osborn, Danny Rand - super rich kids with nothing but loose ends

Sometimes Harry tires of seeing the same old, same old in their expensive Armani dress-shirts and Prada shoes on charity events like these with bottles of Moët & Chandon, caviar lathered on toasts on silver trays brought around by waiters in impeccable suits and crystalline chandeliers glimmering as kaleidoscopes. He dutifully sips his flute of orange juice, because God forbid he'd have the actual taste of champagne on his tongue, and overlooks the marvelous Rand garden from the balcony with iron wrought railing and marble tiles.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" He's asked by a 13 year-old Danny Rand, who looks like a Californian golden child in ridiculously over-priced designer wear.

Harry downs the rest of his beverage, feels the taste of orange and bitterness on his taste buds and turns around, back to face the boxwood-maze. He knows his father would scold him for not adhering to etiquette, but seeing as his father is currently charming his way into a new business deal, the boy props his elbows on the railing and huffs, "No offense, but the crowd is a tad, dull, no?"

Danny lets out a laugh, "None taken. I'd rather do more productive things than _smile, smile, **smile**_ to the stuffy adults."

"_Keepin' up appearances_, my dad calls it. Do it for the company, son." Harry mimics Norman, putting up a stern façade.

In return he gets as an answer, "With that attitude you'll never get into Harvard, boy. You don't wanna end up in a community college, now do you?" Danny puts his hands on his hips snootily, chin up and eyebrows scrunched, the spitting image of one of their nannies.

Despite himself, Harry ends up chuckling and shakes his head helplessly, afraid he'll lose composure completely.

They end up having a blast and it makes it all that more sour to hear Danny has moved to Asia to study martial arts, and even though Norman is hissing that he should behave, Harry ends up throwing his glass from the balcony in loneliness. All the while thinking it isn't fair how Danny got away from this and he's still stuck in an haute couture doll house.

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#8. Pilot Jones : Norman Osborn, Otto Octavius - you thought i was above you, above this in so many ways

"Welcome back to the family, _Otto_. We have plenty of work ahead of us."

Norman observes the basin, the normally pellucid fluid being high-lighted by the obscure green-tinted lights, the few bubbles floating to the top only to burst into nothing and allows a wicked grin to curl upon his lips. His fingers are itching in anticipation, disappear into the pockets of his long coat and rub against the soft material inside. Plans are swirling around his mind: blueprints, mechanics, chemicals, the correct use of animal DNA on human subjects and so much more. He finds himself staring at Octavius' pale face, at the hollow cheeks and the hair fanning behind his head like shadow-like tendrils.

There should be a notion of guilt stirring inside of him, Norman muses as he taps his foot impatiently on the platform, an emotion of some sorts should take over his senses at this pitiful sight. He tries to imagine his son in the same position and feels himself growing sick at the mere thought of his boy in such vile circumstances. Otto is physically weak, rarely any strength left in his muscles, pot-bellied and sickly. However, his mind is strong, a polished diamond.

Nobody has ever claimed Norman Osborn was soft-hearted, but he wasn't heartless. He will give this shrivel of a man all the equipment that is necessary, he will replace flesh with metal and bone with wiring. It's only basic economics he gets some sort of recompensation for his troubles.

Only later, when this venom surges through his veins like electricity and his body rips apart at the seams, Norman wonders if it was worth it.

And after discovering the pure power he possesses, Norman in his drug-induced, megalomaniac mind **_knows_** it was.

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#9. Crack Rock : Norman Osborn, Harry Osborn - hittin' stones in glass homes

Harry plucks a crystalline flute of sparkling champagne from a silver tray, held upright by a skillful butler in a suit with swallow tails, and mingles through the crowd. People, business acquaintances and Vogue models and Pulitzer Price winners, knitted together in groups of four or five, are talking and laughing haughtily about the stock market in the Osborn penthouse and their murmurs rise above Pachelbel's Canon in D major. He feels sick to his stomach, not because of the hors d'oeuvres or the fact some famous actress is snorting a line of coke in his personal bathroom, but rather since his father promised him they'd have the whole weekend together.

"So _I said to him,_ in paraphrase of course, well cry havoc then and let slip the hounds of accountancy." Norman drawls in a bored tone while the three men in Gucci around him start to chuckle. He takes a quick sip of his glass of bourbon and allows a frugal, almost benignant smile to curl up his lips.

Harry manages to push into the core group near the grand windows where his father stands chattering, offers a complaisant sneer to the director of personnel, the latest upcoming fashion designer and the winner of the Oscar for supporting male role respectively and tugs politely at his father's sleeve.

He whispers, "I thought we were going to have a bonding weekend, _dad_." It comes out as a hiss, the affricatives pleasantly popped.

Norman hums in response, wraps his arm around his son's shoulders and turns him to the others, "My pride and joy, gentlemen. Isn't he quite the looker?" There are grunts in agreement. "I decided to tough him up accordingly by sending him to a public school. Mingle with the masses. Teach him some humility." Then, he turns to Harry and mumbles, "_**Stark**_ had a huge feast yesterday, can't let the competition get ahead of us, boy."

Harry bites the inside of his cheek, tries to keep his tongue in check. And he can't quite help himself to wonder how that line of coke would feel bursting through his nostrils. Maybe it would rule the disappointment out.

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#10. Pyramids : Ava Ayala/Peter Parker - the way you say my name makes me feel like

Steam rises from aunt May's authentic Japanese tea-ceremony cups, vaporizing into the tranquil air of the Parker's household living room and the scent of jasmine tea clings to the furniture. Peter smiles lightly and props his chin on Ava's shoulder, staring down at the open textbook on her lap. Her handwriting is neat and curly, unlike his cluttered scribbles. His hands rest comfortably on her bare legs as she managed to sit between his spread legs on the couch. She's wearing polka-dots pajama shorts and the lace seems lighter in contrast with her natural skin color.

"_Pretty_ sure the answer is 25.6 percent." He murmurs against the skin of her throat, half-lidded eyes looking at the answer to question number three. His fingers stretch and glide down the expanse of her legs.

She breathes out, her exhale blowing the steam from her tea away. They're left listening to Kavinsky because Sam forgot to turn off the radio. "And I'm _pretty_ sure the answer is 24.6 percent." Ava tilts her head back and presses a kiss to Peter's temple.

He chuckles, "Want to do the math?" There's something cocky about the tone of his voice.

In return, the girl grins widely and replies, almost sultry, "You're going down, Peter Parker." Her almond-shaped eyes glitter in the living room lights.

"Looking forward to it, miss Ayala." They manage to crane their heads in an angle comfortable for kissing. He thinks asking Ava out was certainly one of his best ideas ever.

A surprised groan rips from his throat when her tongue swipes a wet, messy line over his bottom lip._** Yep**_, best idea ever.

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#11. Lost : Mary-Jane Watson, Sam Alexander - girl, you know you're lost, lost in the thrill of it all

Her fingers fly over the keyboard, her face is the complete paragon of concentration and her shoulders are hunched, as if she's trying to get closer to the computer screen. Quietly, under her breath, she's mumbling catchy one-liners and shreds of song lyrics. Sam has to strain his ears to hear the words clearly and rolls his eyes when he catches 'Spiderman' a couple of times. He got suckered in cleaning the library shelves because of that prank he played on the Web-Head during lunch break and he certainly hadn't expected MJ, that twerp's best friend, to be present as well. It leaves him wondering how the hell a nerd like the Bug-Breath managed to wander around in the fiery redhead's social circle.

"Hey, Sam, right?" She suddenly pipes up, glancing at him balancing a tower of books in his arms from behind her screen, "I'd like to ask your opinion about something."

"Huh? What for?" He asks, putting the books on their respective shelves after having them toroughly dusted.

MJ smiles and Sam has to admit she's _quite_ pretty, "I'm writing the screenplay for Midtown High's musical and I thought doing something with the recent events in NYC. Do you think this is terribly out of character for Spiderman to say?" She proceeds by reciting a few sentences from her scenario.

Sam breaks out laughing, "Oh this is rich, Mary-Jane. I'd definitely like to hear _that_ Web-head say this. You should totally add it."

"_Web-head_? Not a Spiderman fan, I take it?" She inquires politely, but her smile hasn't diminished, "Oh and call me MJ, by the way."

He blinks slowly, mentally berating himself for almost blowing his cover and recuperates quickly with a dash of his boyish charm. "I like Nova more, actually. But sure I'll call you MJ." He grins cheekily, "_Em-Jay_."

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#12. White : Ava Ayala, Sam Alexander, Luke Cage, Danny Rand - does this mean everything's going to be alright

Luke knows what anger tastes like; the flavor rested heavy upon his tongue while fatigue covered his exhausted empowered body after swimming for three hours to the Eastern coast after his parents' SHIELD-issued jet blew up into smithereens. (he couldn't even feel the cold from the seawater, the heat from the explosion; there was only anger and grief.) Fury took him in personally after he beat down two divisions of SHIELD agents who were sent to recover him and sometimes the thought of him breaking bones of innocent people who were just doing their jobs sickens him to the point he wants to throw up.

Ava **_cannot_** let the animal control her; forever doomed to training rooms and study sessions and she must admit she likes the thought of being a successful independent woman in a renowned government agency, of calling the shots. However, she also realizes her childlike innocence perished along her father's beating heart, she couldn't be weak anymore. Always in control, always strong and smart and diligent until her insides are solid and the tiger is left scratching meaninglessly at concrete.

_Then there's Sam_, whose father died and whose mother worked herself to the bare bone. He inherited his father's helmet and was summoned to join a group of Guardians, face intergalactic threats who could easily wipe the earth from the face of the universe and he was just fourteen years old. He's seen hardship and death, tyranny and despair and he laughs the dangers walking along this planet's surface away, because they are jokes compared to what he usually deals with when he's with his _**other**_ team.

Danny shakes his head when he reads their files and talks to them with a frugal smile: they are not hopeless causes no matter what most people believe. They are his best friends to date and he wouldn't want it any other way. That's why he's here for them, whether they realize it or not.

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#13. Monks : Danny Rand, Luke Cage - mosh for enlightenment, clean chakra, good karma

"Tell me how you did it, man." Luke says off-handedly from the standard-issued bed in his friend's room on the renewed Tri-Carrier, arms behind his head and legs crossed casually.

Danny waves the match he just used to light his scented candles around and looks up from his spot in the corner, near the chest of drawers. "Did _what_, exactly?" He feels at ease in these scarce Spartan surroundings.

Luke offers a lop-sided grin, "Defeat the dragon, of course." There's a slight ruffle when he moves his feet about and drags the blanket to the edge of the mattress.

He pauses for a moment, barely aware he's still holding the match or he can smell the faint fragrance of saffron if he leans in a couple of inches closer to the rectangular candle. "I'm not entirely sure how to explain it.. I imagine it to be akin to how an artist suddenly gets a surge of creativity."

"_Huh_? So ya mean to say, anyone could've done it?" Luke asks, skeptic amusement crystal clear in his voice.

Frowning, Danny responds, "No, it's.. It's akin to how the Buddhists reach enlightenment. You have to _train_, meditate, learn and gain _considerable_ knowledge.. And then.." His knuckles turn bone-white when he clenches his fists, return to their usual color when he unclenches.

Luke takes a deep breath and continues, extremely gentle, "Hey, dude. I was just messin'. You're the man." His teeth are straight and white and visible when he smiles widely. "Wouldn't want it any other way."

Nodding, the martial artist offers a kind smile in response and comments, "I am most pleased with your sentiments regarding me, my friend."

"You're welcome, fortune cookie." Luke guffaws.

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#14. Bad Religion : Steve Rogers, Phil Coulson, Wade Wilson - just outrun the demons, could you?

"Does Fury _intend_ to make a program concerning..." Captain America pauses deliberately, weighing his words wisely, "Teenagers much like him?" His gaze glides over the contents of the training room, the damaged robots and the blur of red and black, slashing and hacking its way through the obstacles.

Agent Coulson coughs dryly, "There have been brainstorming sessions, sir. Director Fury has received word of the White Tiger legacy after Hector Ayala's passing."

Captain America nods, "He looks a bit _too_ impulse to maneuver in a team, don't you think?"

"Wilson has a lot of potential.. His healing factor surpasses even Wolverine's, sir." He replies smoothly, but with a strained sense of admiration, something which leaves Steve uncomfortable at times. Those vintage cards weren't an extremely pleasant surprise despite the quality of the pictures.

Deadpool, a highly unusual name for a hero Captain America thinks but could work on the field, skids to a halt, sheaths his blades and throws his head back, tired. Unaware he is being observed from behind the double glass, the teen pulls his mask from his head and Steve frowns at the sight.

Coulson immediately placates, "Skin cancer. He's been experimented on before he decided to join SHIELD. The cancer cells are super-powered as a fault and the healing factor constantly battles those vigilantly. Hence the, uhum, apparel."

Scars cut into the teen's face, disappear and reappear at a constant pace, leave the skin blotched and damaged. Steve sighs, understanding why the full-blown costume might be necessary.

"I'd like to talk to him." Captain America says sternly, interest peaked.

Not entirely surprised, the SHIELD agent remarks, "Sir, you **_do_** have a meeting with the director in ten minutes."

Steve smirks, "Ten minutes is plenty o' time, Phil." He knows the dropping of his name would convince the other to acquiesce sooner, "He looks like an interesting kid."

Wilson turns out to be _all-over-the-place;_ incessantly chattering and blabbering and touching his shield and costume, but what actually bothers Steve is how he refuses to remove his mask again. As if the face behind the fabric is something to be feared and cannot possibly be associated with heroism. He was about to remark on the fact when Phil steered him to Fury's office.

He didn't see Deadpool after that again, (_until it was too late_).

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#15. Pink Matter : Carnage, Peter Parker - close my eyes and fall into you

Peter finds it difficult to _breathe_ as this slick, thick mercury-like substance spreads over his skin, envelops him like a suffocating blanket and imprints itself onto him, morphs into him. He's been through a particularly painful episode like this one before; a patch of his own DNA conflicting with his general mindset, trying to take him over violently. It calls out to him, pitifully soft and at the same time, screeching and screaming. They should be one powerful being, it hisses to him as his skin goes from pink to pitch-black and finally settles into a crass black-blotched crimson. His eyes are open-wide, until the surroundings fall away into darkness and he's left to his scattered, incoherent thoughts.

Then, he moves. He bounces off equipment and destroys and wreaks havoc and he can hear the Goblin comment on his actions in this suspiciously pleased tone.

"Carnage" Peter finds himself identifying with the word, with the concept represented in those morphemes, with reflecting such an outrageous, dangerous ideal. He's scared witless by the prospect of losing himself to this symbolic name.

His limbs flounder and bustle but Peter cannot possibly, for the life of him, break free from this persistent symbiote. His cognitive abilities hustle to a stuttering halt and the symbiote rakes sharp tendrils over his brain, carves all meaning out of the grey matter and hushes him with promises of power.

He closes his eyes, exhausted. Carnage promises to take care of him for _now_ and that is enough.

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#16. Forrest Gump : Peter Parker/Sam Alexander - my fingertips and my lips, they burn from the

"You're irresponsible." Peter states in a deadpan rather than remarks casually, which is uncharacteristic considering his laissez-faire, laissez-allez attitude.

Sam rolls his eyes, makes a show in slurping obscenely loud from his milkshake straw and snarks in rebuttal, "Pot calls the kettle **_what_** now?"

He slumps further down, until he's off the couch and gingerly bumps his head against Sam's knee. "Would it kill you to listen to me once in a while?" His gaze is lost somewhere between the coffee table and the horrible B-slasher movie on the television screen. Sam remains silent for once, threads his cold fingers through Peter's chestnut hair and simply sighs.

"Was that rhetorical? Because your ideas aren't always top-notch." He says this with a fondness in his tone, raking his short-clipped fingernails over his scalp. Peter leans into the touch, but just barely.

Huffing in response, the teen sprawls his arms over Sam's lap and looks up at him, surly, "I'm tired of having to fight _tooth and nail_ with you, Sam." He puffs out the boy's name, "I'd like to think I've improved in the team's department."

His hand stills and he's painfully aware of Peter's weight on his legs. They have this thing where they're civil in the confines of the Parker's living room, civil to the point they can behave normally around each other, civil to the point Peter sometimes pins him to the cushions because he blabs too much. And coming from puny Parker himself, that's an accomplishment.

Sam swallows back trepidation with the remains of his vanilla milkshake, "I just want.." He blinks, unsure, to keep the Web-Head noticing him? To acknowledge him as an equal? He shakes his head, grins, "I just want to watch this movie right now."

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#17. End : May Parker, Peter Parker - you're special, i wish you could see what i see

She presses her lips to his forehead tenderly. Her husband's peculiar nephew with the bad eyesight and the affinity for science has come to live with them after the passing of his parents and May must admit she's growing fonder of him as every day passes. He's silent and shy around her sometimes, when he isn't sure what type of childlike affection is appropriate seeing as she isn't his mother.

May flicks on his nightlight and ruffles his hair. "_Sweet dreams_, Peter." She whispers kindly into the white-spotted darkness of his room and stands to leave.

He surprises her by reaching out and gasping out, "W-wait! I, uh, want to ask you somethin'.." Peter tugs the quilt she bought for him when he was nine closer to his chest and pauses, before speaking up again, "Uhm, our Math teacher asked us to, to ask our parents to bake cookies for the Christmas show and, well, would you mind to come to school with me Saturday? When you're not, not too busy with work of course." He adds in a whisper, "I don't get why they want to make me go on a Saturday, though.."

Her fingers linger on the door handle and she turns ninety degrees before breaking down in a smile, "I'd love to, sweetie."

There's this rustling sound and before May realizes what happened, her ten year-old nephew has his arms around her waist. "Thanks, aunt May. Love you."

Her hand settles on his shoulder, "I love you too, Peter. You're going to grow up to be a fine man."

"Like _Einstein_?" Peter asks in wonder, looking up to her.

She laughs quietly, "Even better."

.

(bonus track. Golden Girl : Peter Parker, Ava Ayala, Sam Alexander, Luke Cage, Danny Rand - i freefall off the hill again, let's see where i land)

Spiderman is scolding himself mentally, berating himself -because how could he have forgotten to refill his web fluid?- and more importantly, he's falling, back facing the concrete feet below and arms stretched and eyes wide behind the transparent layer of white of his mask. He wonders how much it will hurt, how long he'll last when his spine hits the sidewalk and around him glass is reflecting in the artificial city lights.

And suddenly he's rising again, flying, moving away from gravity's inevitable pull. Nova's smiling up at him, "Heya, Webbs, thought you might need a hand, or two."

He laughs in response, "_Glorified jetpacks_ for the win." His teammate shoots past the building's flat roof, drops him halfway and aims straight for Thundra, fist-first.

White Tiger jumps in front of him, scratches the silver disks the Wizard threw into his direction to metal scraps and looks at him from over her shoulder, "Stop goofin' off and give us a hand!"

Iron Fist pounds his hand, sparkling with energy, flat onto the flat roof, thus resulting in a shockwave which throws Klaw off-balance. "Good to see you in one piece, my friend." He remarks, calm despite the rubble around him.

"Thanks! At least _someone's_ happy to see me." Spiderman huffs and wheel carts away from the squirt of glue Trapster blasted his way.

Powerman grins, "We're all happy to see ya, Webbs. Kind of busy now, though." He barely manages to dodge a punch from Thundra, who apparently shook off Nova's attack.

Shaking his head, he surveys his surroundings, his team fighting his enemies alongside of him and allows a smug smirk to capture his mouth. _What would he do without his friends, really?_

.

_Penny for your thoughts?_


End file.
